>let it roll: photo-blog #1

>my 13 rolls of film have been developed (at the divine price of $187 . . . cough).

care to follow me on a photo journey?

Christine’s mediterranean extravaganza: the first 3 days, august 4-7, 2005

BUDAPEST

the inner courtyard that my hostel window overlooked. in mornings, i would rise early to watch “the sun cascade down it with slow conviction.”

the stairwell leading up to my hostel was a timecapsule of sound.

i awoke early one grey morning to fetishize the sumptuous eastern-european architecture surrounded by modern smart cars.

our bus tour stopped atop citadelle hill, and although the sky teased us with sadness, we were already captured by the postcard-like danube.

sometimes you just gotta tourist-ize yourself.

and other times you just gotta inhale.

the parliament building adorns the danube riverbank, but i wonder where the justice is.

one day, i walked round the rear of the opera house to find a quiet but breathtaking street that leads straight to st stephan’s basillica. i made the cars behind me wait as i kneeled in the middle of the street like a madonna altar.

somewhere in dickon’s great expectations, it says, “the eyes aren’t the windows to the soul, the hands are.” this is the first in a series of photos i took in each city with my hands purposefully in the shots, in a variety of poses. i guess i just wanted to remember all the places my hands have been. here in heroe’s square, i love how the centre column appears to be sprouting as my fifth finger.

i wanted to reach out and touch something that wasn’t there.

i wanted to cup a street in my palm.

this gilded façade curved like a half moon around the corner.

so as i followed it along, and i lay down in its centre like bone marrow, pretending to melt into the ground.

when i got to the end, a solemn sense of pride blew over my right shoulder.

at st stephan’s basillica, the gothic-styled saints standing peacefully in their altars made me swing my head back. to look up.

kevin was from france. crystal was from nigeria. they married and bickered like a portuguese couple, while planning their move to montreal. they made me giggle as our hungarian waiter innoently rounded our bill up. (take note of crystal’s beer mug . . . it’s bloody huge!)

south-african-born, toronto-bred james and i grinning on the budapest metro bus, seconds before a greasy shit swindled us out of 2000 HUF

i sauntered across a bridge over the river-danube and paused.

sans-bus, i climbed citadelle hill on one sweaty/sunny day, and snapped another postcard.

—yesterday was my sister steph’s wedding.

if anybody was walking around the intersection of bay and bloor yesterday around 4/4:30pm, and saw 2 stretch limos and 1 rolls royce stop traffic with the dolled-up men and women inside screaming and hollering through the sun rooves as the champagne flowed and dozens of TIFF papparazzi snapped mistaken-celebrity photos . . . yeah, that was us.

interesting greek-orthodox ceremony prayers à la “the woman is subservient to the man, this is god’s law” made all the bridesmaids snort. the groomsmen loaded up on frangelica and tetered in line next to the groom, dino.

i stood out of the sunroof of our limo for a long time, letting the wind patti-labelle my perfect coif.

our heels quick-sanded into the grassy fields surrounding convocation hall, and the photographer and videographer captured lovely and not so lovely moments on film. according to the groomsmen, dino is a “goon.”

we gargle the limo’s champagne to the reception, where we do shot after shot after shot inbetween shaking hands in the receiving line. sambuca, bailey’s irish cream, and other undecipherable liquors. i’m in a spin, loving the spin i’m in.

as a member of the bridal party, i decide to make a grand entrance into the reception hall by acting like a jackass. as we sit for our meal, groomsman jimmy, who has been wrapping his busy fingers around me all night, has his hand so far up my leg that he can count the change in my pocket. 30 shots of frangellica and all that.

i make that comment to ashley in the washroom, and a beautiful woman in green approaches me, shakes my hand and says, “hi, i’m jimmy’s mother.”

now let’s see if i can fit my other foot in my mouth.

we do some greek dancing, where i pick up dance steps on the spot, then fend off a series of drunk groomsmen throughout the remainder of the night. ova cries in my mother’s arms. sitto is kissed my father. mom snickers with my stepmom. my new brother-in-law wipes perspiration off his brow with a folded hankerchief.

i yap until 1am with my old across-the-street neighbour chris bazos who used to treat me like a shit stain. he’s sweet and polite now, and we do 3 sambuca shots while yapping about writing.

“look, i’ve known you for a long time,” he says. “can i still call you chrissy?”

“of course. why?”

“steph said you don’t like that anymore. she said i should only call you christine.”

“of course you can call me chrissy. that’s what my family still calls me. but if i really like you, i’ll let you call me estima.”

he laughs and inserts my cell phone number into his contact list.i closed my eyes when i walked down the aisle.

i lifted my head too high as i walked back down the aisle. jimmy tried not to vomit from all the frangellica.

my dad grabbed me in front of the rolls royce for a photo, and i pretended he wasn’t wearing a pink tie.

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Christine Estima

Christine Estima

As a half-Portuguese, half-Lebanese, feminist, novelist, hipster, atheist, charlatan, blogger, backpacker, playwright, bookworm, film critic, bon vivant and lovertine, I began my journey of petulance and precociousness in the suburbs of Montreal and Toronto. I thusly figured I'd turn out to be a nun, or a writer. A few years at a Catholic school cured me of the first disease.

I cannot wear white without spilling something on it, but you'll still find me, most likely, in the fridge at 4am.

I mean well.

Want to know more about me? You can find my bio, writing portfolio, and media coverage at ChristineEstima.com